


per aspera ad astram

by solitariusvirtus



Series: Uncanny Westeros (Otherworlds) [33]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, excerpt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 23:11:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21216608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: “It strikes me as odd that they would so heedlessly attack knowing a force far surpassing their own might strike back and yet when it comes down to it there is never any retribution.” He cocked his head to the side, eyes slanting to her own. “A curious state of affairs.”  She stiffened in her saddle, unable to understand what it was he implied.Some matters should remain hidden.AU! The search for answers inevitably leads to suffering.





	per aspera ad astram

The bride wore silver ribbons in her hair. They matched the grave white and gray shades of her kyrtle; embroidered with great care, the skirts swayed with every step. With her own hand, he’d heard say. Certainly, the simple cut of it marked her beside the wider and more embellished skirts passing before her. Rhaegar took a moment to observe the woman with greater care. She stood out by pallid, ghostly colour amid strong, vibrant shades. His brother’s betrothed, his own wife. She stood to the side, head bent in silent contemplation. The same icy look she’d been wearing since he set eyes upon her remained firmly affixed to her visage. Would her moue have been improved by a smile? A lovely girl already, even if too severe by half, he doubted that little bit more enchantment would provoke any true change in an observer. As such, Rhaegar suspected, it was best not give the matter too much attention.

It was better to give Lady Lyanna Stark as little attention as possible as well. A cruel twist of fate had brought him upon the path and he did not believe himself yet capable of forgiving such vagaries, be they by the gods’ design. The breadth of the chamber stretched between them, yawning, an insurmountable distance. Was there a way to row farther away, he wondered. Did he need to? The shadow in the corner moved, silver skirts trembling with the swaying steps she took. She met her brother. The man kept her path. They exchanged words, the gestures tense, uneasy. He wondered what passed the brother’s lips. And wondered what she answered. Hands touched, again the movements limp and troubled. He saw them as though through the thin veneer of a murky lake, spotted and dulled, hazily strewn together moments at odds with the rest of the world. It was almost as if existence had split in two and some continued on with their lives while others were stuck in a slowly progressing reality.

He blinked. The spell broke. Brother abandoned sister to the mirth and merry-making of weddings. She stood yet on her side of the chamber, not daring to look at him. Rhaegar supposed he might console himself with the knowledge that of the two, he was the braver. Liquid courage certainly helped. The cup turned gently in his hand, its contents disturbed no more than he was. White and grey brushed the polished floors, clearing a path as reds and blues, golds and browns, greens and violets lined the ribbon she trod. Might be she was the braver one; absent spirits as well. Lyanna stood before him. Rhaegar was slow in responding to her close presence. She held a carafe in her hands. “More wine.” It was no question.

He held out his cup, looking into her face at long last, after many an hour of avoiding her gaze. She poured for him in a way she never had for his brother; absent laughter and good cheer. A drop too much and sweet Arbor fare ran down his fingers. She reached out, holding her sleeve forth in order to absorb some of the fluid. Red seeped into the cloth, leaving the faint impression of fingers as she drew away. The words she spoke were soft, barely audible over the din. He wished he were back in Oldtown, pouring over ancient texts, at peace, as much as he could ever be, with himself. It turned out his father had been the clever one, in the end. How he hated the man for that; could he not be wrong just once? It appeared to not be the case. Settled at his side, the bride was once more reaching for him, speaking words he had no wish to hear. Rhaegar allowed himself to drift from her, gaze turning to a flaxen haired maiden and her rather oblivious partner who would not be induced to take a turn with her, it seemed.

Ordinarily of a bent for study, in the absence of books, Rhaegar often supplanted the written subjects with the less reliable but nevertheless entertaining human element so abundant about him; he found little comfort in the foibles of others, especially when they struck so close to his own weaknesses, yet he could not drag himself away from the sight and was thus forced to contemplate the plight of the fair maiden at length. She’d engaged the object of her affection in discussion, no matter how reluctant the man seemed; his replies, one could observe, were half-hearted at best. She leaned in so as to better hear him and Rhaegar could have committed more of the interaction to mind were he not troubled at the very moment by an unfamiliar touch.

The expression on her face; it was so like the one she’d worn holding her brother’s broken corpse, his head resting against her chest, weight supported by her frame. It was compassion he read in the lines of her face. She’d plied him with drink, gentle word and finally with understanding. Dirt had clung to her skirts then; her moue only able to express shock. The sallow colouring of that day had gone, the suffering leaving her drained. Much like a flower in the grips of an early-setting winter, her petals shrivelled, and yet there she was, clinging to the last. “Your Grace,” her voice broke slightly.

He drank of the wine she’d poured him. The bride occupied her seat by his side, staring at him expectantly. “Time stops for no man and if Your Grace should wish to honour your brother’s sacrifice, you cannot remain unmoved to our plight.”

“Sacrifice? Is that what they call blindly charging into a line that won’t break?” The she-wolf’s eyes glinted with menace as her fingers wrapped around his wrist, nails digging into the flesh beneath the cloth.

“In the face of overwhelming odds, he stood and fought for himself and his men. For all of us.” The conviction in her voice irked him beyond belief. He shook her hold off, her hand falling to the arm of the chair.

"What good is a dead man? Even a hero, he’s still only ashes in an urn.” She reeled back as though slapped. 

Brandon laughed, his voice loud in the silence of the godswood. “You might as well have told him you preferred his brother to his face.”

“I do, that is I did prefer his brother.” Daeron hadn’t watched her closely. He’d not kept track of her as she moved about the chamber and he certainly did not read her, or attempt it. “He was a brave man.”

“He was fool enough to wed you; of course the man was brave.” The jab was met with a glower. Brandon cleared his throat after he’d managed to calm himself down enough. “Whether you like it or not, however, you are getting his brother.”

“Aye, I am certain he shall bore the Wildlings into slumber when they attack.” Brandon reached for the pin holding her cloak together just as it unfastened. He secured it back even as he visibly considered his words with care, a turn not at all in her brother’s nature.

“No man is pleased to be so blatantly compared and certainly not to an ideal he may never reach. Symeon Star Eyes is an old wives’ tale for good reason. This prince is not the other prince and should you attempt to mould him in the image of his brother, you will have effectively pushed him away and lost whatever hope of help you’ve ever held.“ Mist seeped past his lips and hers, mingling in the cold of the morning. “He is bound to have plans of his own, thoughts and needs that are his. Listen and learn. He will do likewise.”

“When have you grown so wise?” she teased even while her mind worked through the hearty amount of advice she had received. Their hands met and fingers laced together in a moment of mutual understanding.

“’Tis more wistful thinking than wisdom. If he fails you, the Wildlings will be the least of is concerns.” 

The faded gold of the merlons shone dully in the weak winter sun. The sky was clear, at least, allowing for the gloom of the day to be somewhat lifted. Lyanna breathed in the fresh air, her knees gripping firmly at the mare beneath her. She glanced towards the Queenscrown a second time. What a small eerie tower, surrounded on all sides by muddy water. The causeway had been flooded long ago from what she’d gathered and certainly the structure had not been inhabited in a good long while; thus one ought not to expect much of it, even with the men sent ahead to bring together the barest of comforts.

The run of her thoughts was interrupted by a sound coming from her mare. She patted her mane ever so gently, eyeing the spear piercing the distance between ground and sky. “There, there; we’ve only a short distance now.” A few other wooden structures had been erected on small islands dispersed throughout the nearness. What looked to be some manner of stable was already visible from where she was.

A rider drew up by her side. “Ser Dayne,” she spoke softly, more in acknowledgement than aught else. The man nodded his head, the helm he wore obscuring most of his face. It was a rather too elaborate garb for the journey they’d undertaken, but she had to admit there was much to be admired even with that in mind. “Do you reckon anything can be done to improve this pile of stone?”

“With great effort, I imagine most anything might be accomplished.” She liked Ser Dayne. Lyanna nodded at his answer. “Are you looking to improve it?” She could tell he was looking at her, yet his expression was beyond her to decipher.

“Needs must.” He offered no more and thus she began moving once more. They rode forth together, gaining upon their companions. Her husband, riding at the front of the column, his attention fixed upon whatever it was Rickard Karstark was saying. She listened as well.

“The danger comes from their cowardice. These savages attack under the cover of darkness; their armour is boiled leather, their weapons copper at best. Had the Watch had enough brothers, these wild men would not be a thorn in anyone’s side.”

“Or the good lords might gather men and see to organising some manner of defence,” Lyanna added into the lull when her husband failed to respond. “Is it not possible to bring together a guard? As you say, our weapons are superior and they have only surprise on their side.”

“A guard requires coin, my lady. No man would risk his life needlessly.” It all came back to gold and silver. Lyanna sighed, more than aware that he had the right of it and any notion of heroism she might offer would be laughable in the face of such an argument. “And a good deal of supervising,” the man continued. “We are not in a position to begin such a project, not at this time.”

Might be they would have had some coin had the King not insisted on squandering the coin on needlessly frivolous expenses. Not that pointing fingers would aid in the matter. Daeron, bless his heart, would have been equally disastrous regarding expenses. “You are quiet, Your Grace,” she said to her husband. If only there was some way to unspool the tangle of his thoughts and make sense of them. It could aid her tremendously in her campaign; if only it were that easy.

“It strikes me as odd that they would so heedlessly attack knowing a force far surpassing their own might strike back and yet when it comes down to it there is never any retribution.” He cocked his head to the side, eyes slanting to her own. “A curious state of affairs.” She stiffened in her saddle, unable to understand what it was he implied. 

Keeping herself from further interaction with the man, Lyanna passed the reminder of the journey in relative silence. There were few things to be done about all the water, even a godly quantity of dirt might not be enough to soak up all the excess liquid. The causeway could benefit from a few more layers of stone slabs. 

“An attempt to make a comfortable life for yourself would not be amiss at this point.” Rhaegar gave the knight a look, then moved his gaze to the hand on his shoulder. Arthur did not retreat. “Think upon it.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is only an excerpt


End file.
